


Nothing & Everything

by AttackOnDrunkCry



Category: ChaoticMonki, cryaotic, youtuber
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 01:53:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6933187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AttackOnDrunkCry/pseuds/AttackOnDrunkCry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A world of nothing.<br/>A world of colors.<br/>A world of everything and anything beautiful; too much covered with nothing to be seen.<br/>That's what Emerald saw.<br/>Nothing. There was everything she wanted to see beyond that nothing. Until Cry came. Not everything happens as you expect it to. Because for Emerald, she didn't see everything but instead felt everything after he came.<br/>And how could anyone feel ungrateful for that?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing & Everything

**Author's Note:**

> I just finished Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe and I thought it was a cute book. Because I read it, the writing style kinda rubbed off on me. It always happens when I finish a book and I write afterwards. Anyway, this one-shot may turn into a full-story when I finish Ruins of Death. Ruins of Death is still on-going. I just haven't posted the chapters I'm writing because I may change the route of them. Enjoy now! :D

I hated it.

 

I hated that I could be limited to certain things in this world. Hated that the world could see, and I could speak, hear, and touch. I could speak in this supposedly beautiful world. I could speak the sounds from my throat, and I could hear the noises produced by it. I could even touch the objects created in the world.

 

But I can’t see.

 

“The world is so beautiful,” everyone claims. That statement enrages me because I for one am not able to see. I don’t know what they’re talking about; I can’t see what they see. The world is engulfed in nothingness. I want to see what a pencil looks like, or what a lamp or a piece of paper looks like. I ask my parents what paper looks like, and they tell me its a very thin, white rectangle.

But I don’t know what the color white looks like. The only color I’m able to see is— nothing. So I’ve asked them for a piece of thin paper, and I felt the sides of it. I count the number of sides on it, and now whenever I hear the word rectangle or square, I’m happy to have an idea of what it may look like.

 

I hate it that I’m homeschooled and I hate that when my parents do let kids come over, they torture me with their games. “Here, it’s right in front of you, Emerald!” When I reach for whatever they want, I grab nothing, and they giggle at my failure.

“It’s over here, silly!” they respond after moving to a completely different area. It’s obvious they are far away. I’m blind, not deaf!

They keep doing it, and I begin to cry and the kids complain about my sensitivity.

“I’m sensitive? How about you become blind and face asshole kids like you who torment you by waving something in front of your face for you to get, only for it to disappear over and over again! And to be laughed at for not getting something because of a disability!” I snapped in anger at the kid. Now, he burst into tears.

My parents’ hands landed on my shoulder. “Where did you learn that word, Emmy!?”

Thank you that the kid had a good mom. “Jonathan! You don’t do that! You’re bullying! Haven’t I raised you right?” his mom scolded. Jon just cried more.

“I didn’t know!” he defended.

“But Emerald! Watch your mouth! For goodness’ sakes you are only eight years old!”

They leave out of my house. I can’t see. I don’t see blackness, but I don’t see whiteness. I don’t see . . . anything. When Jonathan left, my mom lectured me for a long time about use of vulgar language. Then she taught me math and science and read to me poetry and Moby Dick. I hated reading. I hated poetry. I hated language arts. When my mom read to me, I wanted to see what colors they saw and imagine the most spectacular things they saw. But I don’t. I try so hard but I can’t.

In the stories, most of the main characters would talk about a long, slithery being with a body that stretched for miles and beautiful red, green, and gold scales. They said that gold was coloring every part of the creature, and I concluded that gold must be a valuable color. In stories, most people even say that certain items were worth more than gold. And I was confused. What is gold? Is it a color, or is it money?

But now I’m here.

 

For ten years, I’ve been blind. And I hate that people always talk about things that I can’t see. Which is every day of my life. When Mom is talking about a shirt she wants to give to a friend, she’d always describe it as pink and purple and all these colors that I want to see. Dad always talks about an ugly yellow jacket he wants to give away. It makes me mad that some people say that certain things are a pretty purple or a pretty yellow, then later describe something else as an ugly purple or an ugly yellow.

 

I hated life.

 

I hated it when Dad brought in a new playmate for me. I hated all my other ones. I had too many of them, and they all played with my emotions and annoyed me to death with my blindness. I only insulted them back and fought them and they called me a blind freak and I said that they suck with insults and at least I don’t have to see their ugliness.

“You don’t even know what I look like!”

“Don’t have to. I can hear how you act!”

So I hated it when a new playmate stepped in my house. I groaned and moaned and whined at my dad and pulled on his supposedly green sweater. “I don’t need a new friend,” I hissed at him. “Every kid in this world is so immature. They all will just mess with me and splash water in my face because I cannot see them.”

“That may be so,” he muttered, letting out a nice sigh. He put his large hand on my cheek and relaxed. “Emerald, we’ve let you be alone for two years. You cannot be this lonely; it’s very unhealthy.”

I tsked at him, letting my arm fall to the side. “I’m never alone,” I whispered to my dad, feeling tears start to prick in my eye. “I have you and mom and I have my room. I don’t want another kid here. I don’t want them to make fun of me.”

“You cannot shut everyone out,” he said. His large arms wrapped around me and squeezed me. “Just give your new friend a chance, will you? For your mom and I?”

 

I stepped away from him, the feeling of betrayal rising in my stomach. I was perfectly capable staying in my room. Feeling every inch of my bed and room was good for me. I could trace outlines of squares and rectangles and things that felt strange and nothing like a square or a rectangle. There was nothing that felt like a triangle and there were things that felt like they had no sides. My mom told me that it was circular and round and I felt happy to know what round felt like.

“We’re here,” an unknown voice boomed from across the room, I stared ahead at nothing. That was where the sound was coming from. There was the sound of a light, happy voice, and another voice that was higher pitched but also low pitched which was confusing. It was a woman and a boy.

“Heya, bud,” my dad said, his voice drifting away from me.

 

I stood still because I was afraid I would fall.

 

“This is Emerald,” he said. “What’s your name?”

 

“. . .”

 

“Sorry Robert, he’s a shy guy,” the woman laughed. My dad laughed too.

“That’s fine, so is my Emerald.”

 

“No I’m not,” I said, loudly and clearly. I think I was making an angry face.

There was silence. “Well . . . this is my son, R—“

“Mom.”

“My son, Cry,” she fixed herself as her son corrected her. I almost laughed.

“Hi, Cry,” my dad said. “Why don’t you go play with Emerald? Me and your mom are gonna have an adult discussion.”

“Okay,” Cry said. I stood there and tried to hear where he was going.

He stopped in front of me, and I moved my head.

 

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi.”

“I’m Emerald. Follow me,” I said. I touched the wall and felt along it until I reached my room. I opened it and entered my nothing room.

“You have a nice room,” he said as I sat down on my bed.

“Thanks.”

We stayed silent, and I didn’t care. I didn’t want him here. But then I got bored. “My dad makes people come here. I usually have no one to talk to.”

“Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I don’t really socialize. Kids annoy me.”

 

I didn’t like that I had to be with another kid. I was waiting for the torment to begin, but he didn’t say anything. I didn’t know where he was. Cry stood up and walked around. He took something and I was ready for him to put it in front of my face and bully me.

“You have cool books,” he enthused.

“I never read them.”

“Why not?”

“Can’t read.”

“Oh. I can teach you how.”

“No you can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m blind.”

“Oh, right. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay.”

I swung my feet. He must have put the book back because I heard something slam shut. That didn’t always mean that he put it back, but I assumed he did from the noise. “So, Emerald? What school do you go to? I haven’t seen you around.”

“I’m homeschooled,” I told him, still swinging my feet. “My mom thought it would be easier for me.” I lifted my hand and touched it to feel the shape of it. Nothing like a square.

“But isn’t that lonely?” he inquired. I raised an eyebrow or at least attempted to.

“Yes. I like it like that. Kids are mean to me, so why be in a classroom with even more kids constantly harassing me because I’m blind, right?”

“I didn’t know that happened,” he whispered. “You’re still a human. You’re still a kid. You still have the same features as them, I don’t get it. You still have clothes. So why would they harass you? You just can’t see. They should treat you the same, not like you are an alien.”

For once, I felt something warm and happy spread through me. My teeth began to show. I was happy! I was smiling!

“I don’t know,” I whispered back. “I think they want to impress people. Maybe because they think I’m weak and they like to show that they’re stronger.”

“That’s dumb.”

We laughed, and I liked it. I think I wanted it to be like that forever. To laugh and smile with someone who understood me, but didn’t understand me, too. Someone other than my parents. He understood the bullying and the harassment and the constant torment, but he didn’t understand what I couldn’t see. Kids asked me if I saw black, and I wondered what it looked like, and they laughed and laughed at me and called me dumb because of it. They have such dumb brains because they don’t understand that I’ve never seen that color before. I hated kids. I hated one year olds, and two year olds and three year olds and four and five and six and seven and eight and nine and ten year olds.

I hated children in general.

Cry didn’t understand the colors I can’t see. He doesn’t understand the shapes and objects I can’t feel or look at. He doesn’t understand blindness. Not everyone does.

I stuck my arm out very slowly, and almost panicked because I felt nothing but the air. I didn’t know where Cry was and it irritated me. His hand touched mine, and he didn’t mock me like all those kids did. Instead, he shook my hand in a playful manner and giggled and I giggled too.

 

I liked Cry. And I just met him. And I knew he was a good person. He was nice to me. And my mood lifted now.

“Thank you, Robert! I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“You’ll see my wife tomorrow. I’ll see you Saturday.”

“Of course. Thank you!”

Cry was in front of me. He said a goodbye, turned, and left. I waved, and grinned happily because he was such a cool person and I really liked Cry. Cry was so cool. So cool. A really great person.

“Did you like him?” my dad asked me. I shrugged my shoulders and rubbed my arms.

“Yeah. He was okay.” My dad probably grinned.

 

-

 

Every weekend and for most of the months in the summer Cry came over and we had a fun time. He told me about fun trips he had in school and the dumb kids in his class. I laughed about them and we had our own inside jokes about them. We drank juice and ate burgers that my dad made and Cry didn’t put anything gross in my food that could be visible to anyone except me. I really liked him.

-

 

After a few weeks, of hanging out, I called him.

“Cry? Cry? Is that you?”

“Yeah. Hi Emerald.”

“Hi.”

“Do you want to hang out?”

“Cry, it’s raining.”

“I know. Your point?”

“You’ll have to come here in the rain.”

“My sister said she’d drive me.”

“Really?” I was surprised.

“Yeah. Tell your dad.”

“Okay then.” I called for my dad.

“Dad, Cry’s coming over,” I told him.

“Oh really? Well then, be safe. Have fun you two.”

I picked up the phone again. “Well I don’t think he cares.”

Cry giggled. “Okay, I’m putting on my rain boots. See you in a few!”

It didn’t take long before the doorbell rang and my dad went and answered the door. “Hey, Cry! Take off your shoes and jacket. Emerald’s in the kitchen.”

I was perched on the stool, listening to the rain and listening to everything. I listened at the horrendous sounds of water splashing against the ground and just waited. There was a hand on my shoulder.

“Hey Em,” he greeted and I smiled. Em. I liked that.

“Hey,” I greeted back, turning and touching the hand on my shoulder. “So what are we doing today?”

 

-

 

Most times when we didn’t have school, we’d have a sleepover in my room and we’d eat popcorn and listen to radio. We’d listen to old radio reports about murderers and they were so much better than movies because they didn’t require vision to actually enjoy. It still had things that I could not imagine, but listening to Cry shiver and squeak in terror was funny.

I’m twelve now.

 

It was summer, and I was still in my house. I never left the house. Maybe only to buy things but I had to stay by my dad and use a walking stick to guide me. Bumping into people was embarrassing. My mom brought Cry over and we both were really happy. I sat with him on the couch in the living room.

It was sad to think that he could see all the wonderful colors of the world, and I could see nothing. I wanted to see what he saw, and see the kids he was forced to face. I hated the “I Spy” games so much. What would I say? “I spy nothing!”

“Is it your blindness?”

“Yeah! How’d you know!?”

But me and Cry just sat there for a while, cross-legged and silent. “You’re really beautiful,” he said to me.

“I am?” I asked. “I wish I knew.”

“Yeah. You are. You have really nice hair.”

I laughed. “You’re funny. What’s my hair look like?”

“You have almost orange and almost pink hair,” he said. “Strawberry blonde, I believe.”

“Really?” I said with a slight glumness. “I wish I knew what pink and orange looked like.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.”

“. . .”

“I keep living in my own reality of real life. A place with no colors and nothing,” I sighed.

“That’s so poetic,” Cry responded.

“Thank you.”

“I love you,” Cry said.

“What really is love?” I inquired. He laughed.

“I don’t know. Dramatic stuff. Something you feel and can’t stop because it’s too powerful.”

“Like . . . super powers?”

“Kind of, but you feel it on the inside,” he explained. I nodded my head.

“How do you know if I feel it, too?” I asked in which he groaned in response at.

“Ah, that’s the hard thing. It’s hard to know if you really have feelings for someone until it happens. I don’t know about you, but I’m totally in love with you.”

“Cry, we’re twelve,” I said awkwardly. I closed my eyes.

“Who cares about age? I know I’m in love with you. I’ll say it again. I love you and I love you and I love you.” I tsked, as he put his hand on my shoulder.

“And I don’t even know what you look like,” I whispered to him.

“That’s a good thing,” he whispered back, and his fingers touched my chin. “When you fall in love with me, you’ll love me and not because of my looks, but because I’m me.”

“Cry, what if I don’t love you back?” I asked him.

“I won’t force you. I’d let you go,” he smoothly said, letting his fingers leave my skin. I wish I could see. Then I could see what he looked like right now.

“Can you describe to me what you look like?” I asked, then sighed.

“With color?”

“Yes.”

“I have black hair. I have blue eyes, and I’m wearing a dark blue hoodie.”

“Is that attractive?”

“Maybe so. That’s not up to me. Do you think I’m attractive?”

“No. I mean, yes. I mean— I don’t know.”

“Do I have to love you?” I asked after a short period of silence.

“No.”

“But you’ll be heartbroken?”

“Yes.”

“So why won’t you force me?” I asked, tilting my head.

“Because love isn’t a choice, Emerald.” His hands grabbed my shoulders and I was surprised at the sudden, rough grab. “If I were to force you to love me right now, you’d be suffering and you’d be hurting and I don’t want to hurt the person I love.”

Silence.

“I want to show you something,” he muttered.

“Go ahead.”

Cry gently took my hand and let me stand before he walked me somewhere. I heard a door creak open and he brought me into oblivion. There was a gentle breeze on my skin and a nice warmth. “Wow, where are we?”

He still walked me somewhere, and my feet felt something hard but mushy under my feet along with something sharp but dull tickling my feet.

“We’re outside, Emerald.”

I sat down on the ground and touched the areas around me. I laughed. “Ha-ha, this is really different.”

There was a noise in front of me, and I knew that it was Cry sitting in front. “Do you like it?”

“Maybe,” I grinned, pulling the curly stuff out from the ground. “Was that grass that I just pulled out?”

“Yep,” Cry told me. “You have a fistful of that.”

“It tickles.”

“Grass does that sometimes.”

“Even if it’s a good thing you can’t see me, I really want you to see me sometimes.” Cry sounded sad, and it hurt me to know that he was upset about something like this. We were still young. There was nothing to worry about.

“I want to see, I really do.”

“I’d switch places with you right now.”

“That’s dumb. Then you wouldn’t see me.”

“I don’t have to see you to love you.”

“Cry, we already established that we’re too young.”

“I’ve already established that age doesn’t matter. I think maturity rules over age.”

“So you’re calling us mature?”

“I believe so.”

I smiled and stopped playing with grass. “You’re a funny guy.”

“How so?”

“You just are.”

“Emerald, please let me do this.”

“Do what?”

“Hold still for a moment.” And there was a hand on my shoulder, and a weird soft warmth on my lips. I stood really still, because I didn’t know what that was. On my lips, something soft and solid and warm. It was solid but not too solid and soft but not too soft. And when it ended, I wondered why I didn’t want it to end. It was so quick. Like a peck.

“What was that?”

“Oh nothing,” Cry said.

“I liked it,” I admitted.

“Oh?” he responded.

“Yeah.”

“Then I can do it again, but not now.”

“Was it something out of love?” I poked.

“Definitely.”

“So, you love me?”

“Absolutely.”

“Will I ever love you back?”

“One can hope,” he giggled.

“Well, if I do, then, I love you I guess.”

“Man, that really does something to my stomach, Em.”

“Like what?”

“You just set off a hundred butterflies.”

“Oh. Neat.”

“Yeah. Neat.”

We stayed quiet.

Quiet was nice. I was fine with it. There was no problem with quiet sometimes. There were a few birds tweeting and some neighbors shouting, but that was okay. I was okay. We were okay.

Because with Cry here, how could I ever be sad?


End file.
